They Call Talk Cheap
by PeriwinkleHaze
Summary: "Katniss has said many things, but never any as important as this." Twelve moments where the Girl on Fire used just her words to sway a nation, since it isn't just Peeta with a talent for them... Canon one-shot, spans all three books. Multiple POVs.


_**A/N: **It's funny how you can originally intend for a story to be about 4,000 words, and then you end up producing something that's close to 10,000. Oops. But it was fun, anyway! Contains spoilers for all three books, and I've kept it as canon as is humanly possible._

_Apologies in advance if this takes forever to read. :)  
><em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Katniss has said many things, but never any as important as this.<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>001. Reaped.<strong>

Today is going to be a long day. She can tell the minute she wakes up. Her tiny heart is beating furiously against her chest, her blonde hair is hanging loosely against her face, and she can feel the sweat clinging to her back.

It's the Reaping today, after all.

But Katniss is right. Her name's in it once, _once_, and if any of the Everdeens is going to be sent in, then Katniss has much worse odds. But she just can't shake this feeling, this _intuition_, that today she is going to be picked.

When her hair is plaited either side of her pale face, her skirt and blouse are on, and her shoes are buckled as tightly as possible, her sister returns from her mid-morning hunt. She feels as though on the outside she is put together; if only her mother can see how torn up she is inside.

Katniss tucks her 'tail' in, grasps her hand and together the three of them walk to the square. She can feel the shakes working up her body, and when she sees the registration desk, she has to catch her breath. This is it. This is _real. _The Reaping had always felt like a sick, twisted nightmare, ready to catch her at her weakest and wake her in her slumber. But now it's here. It's crept up on her.

And she's terrified.

The world is a blur. A pink sugary creature stands up on a large, blindingly lit stage, a delicate pink hand edging into a glass bowl. Moments pass, until the sugary voice calls out a name she knows. Her name.

She can hear nothing, feel nothing. It's as if time itself has stopped; the scene is moving around her but she is transfixed. Rooted. She can't even breathe.

_But Katniss said - Katniss said - she said I wouldn't be -_

_Katniss was wrong, evidently._

The truth of everything is crushing down on her, ready to flatten her. She is going to die. She is going to _die._

The world is still warping, shifting like a whirlpool when she is walking up the stage. Still warping when she feels the arm brushing her aside. Still shifting when she hears the choked cry, "I volunteer!"

And it stops. The scene is clear. Her beautiful, brave, proud sister, normally so sure and now so terrified, she's - she's -

No! She can't! She can't die, not when it is Prim's turn, not when she is the one destined for this! She won't let her. No! No! No!

But a large body with thin arms has picked her up, is dragging her away, and she cannot stop the dreadful act. Her screams are muffled in Gale's shirt, her tears absorbed by the heavy material. She can't bear to look, think, hear whatever is happening on stage. Because Primrose Everdeen was reaped. But Katniss, her beautiful, brave, proud sister, she has taken her place. And if she dies, then it's all her fault.

But a small, evil, selfish part of her, the side that she didn't recognise as her own, can't help but think, _thank you. You saved my life._

She doesn't like that it's true; that she is safe and protected, whilst her sister is now in peril. Her thoughts are still on this when the baker boy is called (another lurch to her heart, the poor, kind boy); when she visits Katniss in the holding room; when her sister is wrenched from her in a silvery metal box on wheels.

When she comes home though, weeks later, holding the hand of the sweet baker boy and kissing his cheek in front of the crowd, Prim realises why her sister did it. Why she had to protect her. Because that's who she is, a protector.

And the warped, twisted, quaking words that saved her life rattle in her ears. But this time, she is grateful.

* * *

><p><strong>002. Loved.<strong>

The minute her daughter Primrose is called upon the stage, she knows that Katniss will not let her go. Her eldest daughter is so protective of her little sister, there is no other way. And she can feel the heavy, leaden weight on her heart, so familiar yet so unwelcome, the strange, cold pain that first lurked when Jasper died. It pulls her down.

She doesn't see Katniss forcing her way to the stage; being crowded around hundreds of other (slightly relieved) family members means all she can see is the back of a woman's head. But she hears it all; Katniss' desperate cry, Primrose's sobbing, the Hawthorne boy's reassurances as she is led away. She closes her eyes, forcing the cold, dead weight down, far down inside her, and lifts her head.

When Barm's youngest is called, it threatens to resurface. She sees her daughter's face twist slightly in shock, or concern, she isn't sure, and clutches Primrose tighter as the little girl sobs against her chest. Anything to hold on, be strong, because she knows that Katniss would never forgive her if she let go now.

When it's time to say - not goodbye, never goodbye, just farewell - she is practically pulled along by Primrose, who can't seem to hold in her emotions (not that she can blame her, she feels just the same, but in the worst way). They force themselves through hundreds of their neighbours, who almost seem happy at the prospect that their families are safe for another year. The Peacekeepers standing guard at the Justice Building almost don't want to let them in, but one of them must recognise Primrose, and maybe sympathise with her tear-stained face, because they're allowed in with short instructions. _You have three minutes to say your goodbyes, you may not trade positions with the tributes, you may not resist the Peacekeepers in any form or attempt to lead the tributes away. You may provide a token if there is one at hand that is acceptable._

Her daughter sits on a velvet couch as Primrose rushes forwards to envelop her in a tight embrace. Katniss hugs her just as fiercely back as she slowly edges into the room. She wants to say something to the beautiful, brave daughter, anything.

But the moment she sees her daughter's deep grey eyes, she is taken back to Jasper, their love, everything, and the dark gloom in her heart almost swallows her whole. Her stance, her thin, angular face, her dark hair, but most of all the steely and determined look she wears - all of it is just like he is still there.

When she begins to speak, absentmindedly running her hand along the velvety fabric of the sofa, she tells them how they must survive. She doesn't reply to her daughter's demands, knowing full well that what she says is vital to listen to.

It's not until Katniss begs her to stay with them that she says anything. She doesn't speak whilst her daughter practically shouts at her to stay awake, alive, healthy, for Primrose, for sweet, precious Primrose. She tries her best to hold back her anger, her sadness at how undeniably true her words are, but it's difficult.

The gloom threatens to creep up, but she heeds her daughter's words; it helps when she speaks for the final time: "I love you. I love you both."

She contemplates these words when she and Primrose are ushered out of the door. For years she'd been convinced that her eldest daughter merely saw her as a nuisance, the useless weakling who cowered and shrank into a recluse when Jasper died. She was sure that given the chance, her daughter would run away, escape to the woods, possibly with the Hawthorne boy and Primrose, and leave her behind. But maybe there's a small spark of hope that her daughter had loved her all along. Maybe there's a spark of hope that, unlike Jasper, she'll come home after the storm.

She notices Barm, but can't bear to speak to him, knowing if she does then she'll likely break down and cry. She must be strong. She must be strong for Primrose. If she can do anything to respect her brave girl who has sent herself to death, then it is this.

Because, after all, she's always loved her. And love is always worth it, a wise man once told her.

* * *

><p><strong>003. Impressed.<strong>

The tribute train is as shiny and metal and perfect as it's ever been. Well, why not give them a taste of the honey before you send them to the bears? That's what Alder used to say. Before he died, and left Haymitch alone to help the poor bastards with a target on their backs.

The plush couches have been changed however, he notices. Guess they couldn't get out the vomit stains from last year, when he'd been on his annual drunken spiel. The thought makes him laugh; _a drunk old man from 12, that's it, and you can't even get his own puke out of the upholstery? Take that, you soulless sons of -_

Everything changes, everything stays the same. That's the golden rule of the Games, isn't it? It looks different every year, with new faces, new kids being impaled on their swords, but no matter what, the only winner is the Capitol. The regime stands.

He almost wishes he'd lost. But he can't take his own life, not now, he's too much of a coward. And he owes it to Maysilee, to Cora, his girl, and Tom, his little brother. If he kills himself, then he's doing them a disservice.

So he stays alive, but he doesn't live. He's lost his soul and happiness, a long, long time ago, and he'll be damned if he ever gets it back. He just lives, breathes, copes, and drinks. The last part especially. Every year the same. Pick up the kids, train them, then ship them off to the arena and watch them die. No dignity, no respect.

But this year, he thinks, this year is going to be different.

He sees immediately the way the boy looks at the girl, they way she holds herself with such assurance. He can feel it, a change in the air.

Of course, it helps when the boy - Pete or something - cleans him up after another drunken night, and mentions that he hopes she'll win.

What in the hell would he want that for? Oh, of course, the kid's in love. Well, maybe that can work to their favour.

So he tries, he really tries to train them up. The girl, a small and skinny thing, turns out to be pretty wicked with a knife - not any kid could get a direct hit between the panelling like that. And the boy is obviously very strong, him being the baker's son and all. He can see the muscle in his stocky frame, and it gives him hope.

Strange feeling, hope. He almost doesn't remember it.

So when they arrive in the violently bright Capitol, with its rainbow houses and cobbled streets, he tells them not to react to the prep team's work. And they look dazzling, ablaze with fake fire, smiling and waving to the crowd, pulling the show out from the other tribute's feet. And the clasped hands, they show they are a united front. Helps with the whole 'love' angle he's hoping to pull.

Of course, the chariots mean nothing in the long run. They've got to train, prove themselves, then actually win the thing. And watching them as they eat dinner, he wonders if they've got in them.

He can't deny the girl - Katniss, that's her name - has a power around her, a quiet authority that gets her noticed when she enters the room. But she's so damn small, and any Career would easily think of her as fresh meat if it weren't for that (literally) fiery debut. He won't give up, though. This year, he's going to have a winner.

He's waited long enough.

He'd almost feel bad for the boy if he hadn't specifically asked for him to save her. The damn kid's so pure, and wholesome, something you don't see a hell of a lot these days anywhere in Panem. He doesn't want to see that perfect image go to waste. But if all goes to plan, he won't have to. The baker boy's going to be remembered forever, for turning the tides at a crucial moment. For giving that all-important thing - hope.

_Stupid kids are gonna cause a damn revolution if they ain't careful, _he thinks mockingly.

But still he worries. He tells them not to show their strengths, but in all honesty he doesn't have the first clue how good the girl is supposed to be with a bow. What if the boy's exaggerating? He is giving her the goo-goo eyes, after all.

He needn't worry, though. Because, when the time comes, the girl proves herself.

Elevens are almost unheard of, especially from such a pathetic district as 12. But she gets it. And all because of her power, her aura.

"Thank you for your consideration." That's what she said.

And boy, they're all going to consider her now! He laughs to himself at the thought, the thought of a scrawny, thin girl from 12 setting the world alight.

Because he's damned if they don't see her potential.

* * *

><p><strong>004. Scorned.<strong>

She volunteered, she won, she came home. That's it, that's all it should ever be.

But it's not it, is it? She came home with _him, _the Mellark boy, and now they're happy and together and living it up in the Victor's Village. Him and her. Her and him.

He's not sure who he hates more.

Gale knows he's not being fair. He _knows _it, but it only makes it _worse. _Because he can't even hold it against her, trying to keep the kid alive to save her own skin as well. That's all it was, surely. She needed sponsors, and the way to get them was to play up his stupid little love angle to the max, and yeah, it helped him out along the way too. But she's always had that selfless streak in her, the good that makes her save people like him, the heart that puts them over herself.

That's all it was, right? She doesn't actually have _feelings _for that kid, does she? No, that's absurd.

He should've volunteered.

He's seen them on the screens, waltzing around the districts, holding hands, kissing, smiling to the beaten-down crowds and pretending they didn't kill their kids in the name of entertainment. He's seen the way he looks at her (the baker kid's besotted), he's seen the way she tries to act the same. But it's a useless act. Catnip could never act to save her life, and if she thinks she's convincing anyone, she's got another thing coming.

It's all so _infuriating, _watching her play herself up as a vapid, stupid girl when he knows full well that she feels nothing for that Mellark kid (he refuses to say his first name, he just won't). But does that mean that she has something with himself?

She never mentioned that kiss, under the autumn sky in their sacred woods, when he felt so afraid he thought he'd burst. But then again he never did either.

No, it's Catnip, _his _Catnip, no one else's. She is his, he is hers, anything else is _unthinkable_. So when she returns home, after her stupid trip across Panem, he has to see her.

He ignores the voice in his head, whispering snide comments because _she's engaged now, she's getting married, and it isn't to you._

He should've volunteered.

He follows her trail through the woods - strange how an arrow will always point to her - and tries to keep his mind off the Victory Tour. Instead he focuses on the trees, the birds chirping, and for the first time really sees just how beautiful the woods are. The sunlight streaming through the trees, the perfect, pure frost dusting the ground, the still morning air. All of it is like a dream. He wonders why he never noticed it before.

The image is almost ruined when he shoots the turkey. But not quite.

Then he reaches the clearing, a brimming, clear lake, and he feels the weight lift from his shoulders. But when he sees her, the hurt, the anger, the fire, all of it returns in copious amounts. He's sure it shows on his face.

He can tell that what she's saying is the truth. Snow's planning to kill them all. And he feels a flicker of joy that she actually decided to tell him, rather than leave him in the dark. She smirks a little when he makes fun of her absolutely hopeless dilemma, and it's just like the old days, their old camaraderie back again.

He can't deny that he wishes it was more, though. But he takes the gloves, flexes his fingers, and he admits to himself that they _are_ comfortable. Even if they're Capitol-branded.

He makes a meal for the two of them as she explains herself. Why she is certain they're dead, why she agreed to the engagement, why she's so afraid. And he feels like it's the sort of thing she'd only tell him, as if they were together, as if he was the one marrying her instead of that damn Mellark kid.

He should've volunteered.

But he doesn't think about that. He won't _let _himself. He just basks in this moment, this moment when they are so completely and perfectly alone, nobody there to stop them or hold them back or just tell him to leave her alone. So when she announces that she thinks they should leave, it's like the world has come apart in an explosion of colour and joy. Because she can be his at last, no Mellark boy, no Snow (of a sort), no mines or reaping.

He picks her up, spins her around, and he knows, he _knows_, that this is meant to be. They're meant to be together, the two of them. And he tells her that they can do it, they can escape, because he believes it. Oh, how he believes it!

She doesn't resist when he pulls her into his embrace. He can smell the soap and the fire on her skin, the forest in her coat, the lavender in her hair, and he wishes he could smell it for eternity. He wants to be with Catnip, his Catnip, until the end of time. And now they can.

They just slip out; the simple, dangerous words that hold so much: his heart, his mind, his soul. He ignores the way she goes stiff and dark, because he feels the most immense sense of relief at finally admitting it. He loves her. She must feel the same.

So when she says them, the words of poison, he pulls away. Because he'd hoped for a declaration of love, and instead she'd said, "I know."

The shift in the air is sudden, violent, brutal. The woods, once his sanctuary, are now a cage tying him to her. The frost on the ground, the sunlight through the trees, they are no longer an image of beauty; they are dead.

He doesn't care anymore. None of it is fair. She is pure poison - she is Capitol branded. And he sees now that he doesn't want that, he doesn't want anything they touched. So he throws the gloves off, runs away, turkey still in his hand. He wants the gloves to burn, he wants her to burn, the way he's burning now.

But it's his fault; not Catnip's.

He should've volunteered.

And in the weeks, months, years after that day, after the war and the fire and the _day he killed Prim _(he can't pretend anymore, it just makes it worse)_, _he finds himself coming back to those words. And he feels like he should have known all along that she never belonged to him.

But the only person he hates for it is himself. Because he loved her, and maybe, just maybe, if he'd taken the place of Peeta Mellark, she would have loved him back.

* * *

><p><strong>005. Entranced.<strong>

She is as shocked as everyone when the announcement for the Third Quarter Quell is made. At first, her mind wanders absently. She doesn't want to believe that the Star-Crossed Lovers, no, _her Star-Crossed Lovers, _could ever be going back to the arena. To think they'd only just won, they were going to be wed, they were going to be her ticket to a better District.

But she can't block the thoughts out forever, and when she begins to sob uncontrollably on the floor, clutching her middle, an Avox comes to help her up.

In the months before the Quell begins, Peeta asks her to send them tapes of the surviving victors. _They're training together, the three of them, that's what he'd told her. _And, well, she'd do anything to help her darling buds stay alive.

She has her nails painted a shocking gold, she buys a gold wig, a thousand golden dresses and hats, and even some jewellery. She saves two pieces of the jewellery, a bracelet for Haymitch (she'd picked out the most masculine one she could manage) and a locket for Peeta. Then she has Katniss' bird pin imprinted on the pair of them. She ignores the cost; the symbol of their team, that's all that matters now.

When the Quell begins, and her darling children are ablaze on their chariots, all of her friends ask her if she thinks they'll win. And she's certain they will (well, not both of them, not again, but one of them must - surely.) She holds her golden-haired head high to the cameras, the crowds, the citizens of Panem, because her darlings, they need her to be as strong as possible. And she won't disappoint.

(But when she's alone in her quarters, that's when she allows herself to cry. Because why would anyone want to ruin such a perfect love story? Why would anyone want to rid them of such perfect people as the victors?)

Her entire world seems to be shattering.

When they retrieve their scores of twelve apiece, she feels afraid. She can't understand why Peeta painted that picture, why Katniss hung Seneca Crane (hadn't he just retired?) - do they want to be killed?

Well, at least they can have the decency and manners to not ruin the interviews. She knows the pair of them are going to be dressed in their wedding outfits, and the thought brings a tear to her eye. As if she wants to be reminded of what they're missing out on! What a cruel trick, making them remember what they are losing.

And the Victors, all of them are so sad, so angry, in their interviews. She feels the betrayal, and she can't decide if this is right. She wants to cry, to sob along with the rest of the Capitol, but she doesn't succumb yet. Something is brewing; she'll have to ask Haymitch later what they are planning.

She thought she'd been the worst when Finnick read his poem to his lover (it'll be a scandal if she doesn't find out who it is); but then her darling Katniss comes on, in a gown of pure white silk and pearls. Tears spring to her eyes, but she won't cry, not yet.

The rest of the people, _her _people, they scream and cry when she arrives. Because this is the worst reminder of the night: the wedding is cancelled, the love story is torn apart, her precious Peeta and Katniss will never have their happy ever after.

She remembers the fairytales her mother used to read her as a child; the brave, dashing prince fights the dark, evil dragon to save the damsel in distress. The huge, black monster is slain, and the prince and his princess are allowed to be together. They marry, and the kingdom is happy.

She never would have thought that Katniss and Peeta would not get to be together. She never would have thought that the dragon lay in wait. She never would have thought that the kingdom would be in danger.

But that was before her darlings were torn apart by war.

And she is angry, upset, desperate for a rule change. She wants that love story, she wants the fairytale ending, she wants safety. But they can't have it, and it's not fair.

And then Katniss summarises her feelings into one sentence, and a flick of her dress:

"Isn't it just... the most beautiful thing?"

And she twirls, and twirls, and twirls. Her posture is immaculate, and the dress burns in acidic, toxic fire and smoke rises up and up and up. The perfect fairytale, it is set on fire. Burnt to cinders. And the black dress that remains is a Mockingjay, but she senses that is means so much more.

Katniss stands in the black garment, and Effie feels the power surge through her veins. The need to make this dark, black world _change_, so everyone can have that perfect fairytale.

The prince who saves the damsel.

The dragon who is slain.

The kingdom happy forever.

And she knows, now she knows who the dragon is. The dragon is within her, it is within all her people, it is the society that allows children to be torn from their mothers and fathers and thrown to the slaughter. It is the society that controls everyone and everything. It is the society that makes 12 so grey and dull compared to her perfect Capitol. _But it's not perfect now, is it?_

So when Katniss is done twirling, she resolves herself to fight for that fairytale. To allow the prince and princess to live happily ever after. And the only way to do that is to slay the dragon, so the kingdom can be joyful, just as her mother had read to her about.

Because that wedding gown really was the most beautiful thing. And Effie has always been taught to not let beauty go to waste.

* * *

><p><strong>006. Remembered.<strong>

He was worried, when Katniss had first put on the dress, that she'd suspect his plan immediately. That girl is shrewder than even she realises.

But she doesn't, and his trick goes off without a hitch. The Mockingjay is there for all to see.

Of course, he knows he'll pay for this. To dare question the society in which he has lived and worked all his life, to hold them to the infinite crimes and abuses they have committed against their people, and the deaths of over a thousand children in the atrocity that is the Games. And no matter how brave or noble Cinna is, he can't deny that there's a small part of him that questions whether he did the right thing.

But he cannot afford to worry about that now, to put his own selfish thoughts above his duty. Because this is his duty, he needs to act to make this world better.

He hasn't always been of this opinion, of course: when he was a boy Cinna was like any other. Going to school, watching the Games, obsessing over the latest fashion trends... it wasn't until his father had died that he really saw the world for what it was.

He was an official in the Capitol, one of the right-hand men of President Coriolanus Snow himself, and life was good, happy, grand. He still remembers his father's face the evening before his death, tight and contorted and desperate. He just wishes he knew why he looked that way. Did he know something? What had he done to warrant such fear?

The next day, the Avox who worked for them found his body in the cellar. His mother refused to let him see, but he caught a peek - blood everywhere; on the walls, the stone floor, the spare furniture they had no other room for.

Looking out after that moment, it was as if he had awoken from a perfect dream to a cruel reality. He supposed he had. Everything was black, grey, dull and the candy colours of his childhood had bled out of the buildings, and the sky, and he was left with nought but a gritty realisation that his world was wrong.

He watched the Games that year, and for the first time he was struck by the - atrocity of it all. How could they view the deaths of innocent children - the violent, bloody deaths of innocent children, even - as entertainment? Something to applaud, laugh at and bet on? These were people not even of age, driven mad by hunger and infection and bloodlust, and they were thrown against each other in the most immoral way he could ever imagine. What kind of just society did that to its people?

So he knew he had to act out. And the way to do that in this vapid, shallow society? Well, clothing of course.

But there has always been a sense of doubt, a small force in his mind that makes him look back and wonder if it was worth it. Training to become a fashion designer, sculpting the Girl on Fire herself, and using her wedding dress, the ultimate symbol of the repressive Capitol, against them all.

Is this right?

Will he pay for this?

He knows the answer to that one. Yes.

The sun rises sharply the next day, a spear of light shooting through his window into his eyes. The stabbing pain makes him wake immediately, and he rises stiffly.

He waits for Katniss in the dark room with no windows, directly beneath the arena, tapping his foot to a tune in his head. He is dressed the same as ever, black shirt and pants, gold eyeliner. Today is like any other. Or so he tries to pretend.

Because he can see it already, he is going to pay for what he's done. And he's afraid. Wouldn't anyone be?

He is assured when Katniss is beside him, clutching onto his hands, trying to hide her fear when it is plain for him to see. Before the capsule is closed, before she is whisked up to the arena again, before he faces his retribution (whenever that will be), she tells him, "My dress was fantastic last night."

And now he knows, he knows he has done the right thing.

* * *

><p><strong>007. Confused.<strong>

The girl propels herself into the boy's waiting arms, and they twirl, much in the same way that she did at her interview. The crowd roars at their unity, their obvious declaration of love, the way he seems to refuse to let her go in her golden candlelight dress.

Of course, Finnick knows better, and he's sure plenty others who aren't starry-eyed and hopelessly romantic can see past their obvious act. Well, past _her _act anyway. Finnick's pretty certain the boy's actions are genuine.

But he's in no hurry to shame her publicly for her obvious indifference. God knows he doesn't want anyone to face what he does.

Tonight's customer is wrapped tightly around his bent arm, clutching onto him as if she can't believe who she's beside. Though, of course, it's highly possible that she wasn't expecting to have him tonight. Many of his patrons receive him as a gift; well, he is the prize of the Capitol after all.

He notes his patron's wide eyes framed with blazing orange lashes (tears are in them - clearly she's overwhelmed by their _love story_); her hair swooped high up in a long plait the girl is famed for; the flames that adorn her nails and puffy dress - perhaps the Girl on Fire and her 'lover' are setting a new trend.

When he is back home, he holds Annie by his side, letting her shiver and shake in his arms as her memories haunt her, glad for the fact that he at least has a real love. He wonders if Peeta Mellark knows that Katniss Everdeen feels nothing for him, and if he does, then how is he coping? It is quite something to have your heart stolen and then stamped upon (he would know).

But he cannot begrudge Katniss Everdeen completely; if he's correct, then her little stunt in the arena could be enough to set this hellish nation on fire. The people, himself included, they know that those berries were not about love; they were about defiance.

And hell knows there hasn't been enough of that recently.

Annie screams when the Quell announcement is made. She thinks, being the youngest and most recent Victor from 4, that she is bound to enter. But Finnick holds her close and whispers reassurances that he'll never let her get hurt.

He remembers when he sees the betting on the television that the Star-Crossed Lovers will no doubt be going back, unless that old drunk Haymitch chooses otherwise. (But even if he does, it won't matter, there's a plan to get them out anyway.)

He almost feels sorry for the Girl on Fire; she's barely won and she hasn't even reaped the benefits being a Victor can provide yet, and now she's being sent back to fight to the death without a break. But he has a feeling that it was her act of defiance in the 74th that has them all sent to their deaths. So he can't be sad for her too much.

Maybe if that 'tacky romantic drama' (as Johanna labelled it last time they saw each other) hadn't happened, they wouldn't be in this mess. Fighting all over again for the crown. Vying for the blood of friends and enemies alike. Dancing in a pit of fire for the entertainment of the masses, as if they were dolls and not human beings.

But that's Peeta Mellark's fault, really, not hers.

He still doesn't buy it, even when they are at the chariot rides, and he sidles up to her, the taste of sugar on his tongue. He feels her tension, her hesitation, but when she offers him no secrets, he figures that she's harder to play than he gave her credit for.

Of course, she and the boy steal the show with their clutched hands and glares of defiance. Even he, in his knotted rope costume beside Mags in a slightly more, 'tasteful', outfit, cannot deflect the crowds' adoring stares.

It's an odd feeling, not being in the centre of wild, adoring fans that can't keep their eyes off him. Not something he dislikes of course: he just hopes the pair of them know what they are doing.

He reads his poem to Annie at the interviews, knowing she'll understand that his words are to her only. As if any of his clients would understand what he means when he sings to her, and her alone. The levity behind those words.

But the love story steals all the thunder and lightning from the storm the victors build, once again. Katniss in her smouldering wedding dress, and Peeta with his declaration of a baby. But he is not jealous. As he clasps hands with his former mentor, he feels the fire that consumes the whole nation. The Girl and Boy on Fire have done it again, oh so cleverly.

But he still doesn't believe them. Not when he streams to Peeta on the beach, not when the two bend for a swift kiss, not when they surge through the jungle by each other's side. All of it, an act.

But this last part, this, this is no deception.

A blue ripple of light and a surge of air, and he is flattened to the ground, an inert body on his. He doesn't need to guess whose it is.

First her screams alert him. Then her sobs. Then finally, as he is pumping his fists into Peeta's chests, it's her terrified, teary whispers that shake him beyond anything. She is _begging _him to stay alive.

He can't focus on much except her words: "You were dead! Your heart stopped!" And he feels like his own heart is stopping, his brain is slowing down to a sluggish beat. Because that is what a lover would say. And Katniss and Peeta, despite their pretences, are not lovers.

She sees his perplexed stares through her teary red face, and looks almost accusatory. He shrugs her off, blames her 'pregnancy' and continues moving.

He knows he's wrong, however. She wouldn't have sobbed and screamed and clutched at his inert body if she didn't feel deeply for him. His whole foundation of his thoughts of the Star-Crossed Lovers is crumbling in his head.

He knows now that he was wrong the whole time. Maybe not all of it was an act.

He only hopes that it doesn't end terribly for her, if that's the case.

Somehow he regrets that train of thought, when they are sat on his mattress, clutching onto frayed rope like it's the lifeline of their loved ones; _Annie, oh Annie, where are you? What are they doing to you? They can't hurt you, not after I tried so hard to protect you, so hard to protect that little piece of your mind that remains -_

But he gets the feeling it is worse for Katniss. The more she talks, and acts, and dances in this new pit of fire, the more _he_ gets hurt. Not that she knows that yet, of course. And he's in no hurry to tell her.

Because he knows it now, even if she doesn't: she does love that boy, and he needs to stay alive. For her.

* * *

><p><strong>008. Threatened.<strong>

From the hidden district of Panem, a President watches with bated breath as the Girl on Fire strikes a match once more.

She sits in Command, avoiding eye contact with the Mockingjay, so vibrant in her propo, and so defeated in her seat. She wonders dubiously how such a small and fragile creature could have had the courage to set their crumbling nation alight with rebellion. She seems barely able to hold herself together, never mind the hopes of a thousand battered souls.

But she is jarred when the girl, a cacophony of fury and power on her dark face and in her dark eyes and on the tips of her dark hair, surges forward to the camera, screaming and holding the Capitol responsible for this - this violence. And the girl, oh she plays it so well as she promises her revenge. Put plainly, but guaranteeing the fire that scorches the ground wherever she walks: "If we burn, you burn with us." And she feels it, the threat the Mockingjay poses to her Presidency.

Because that girl, that same weak, snivelling and cold girl, she knows when to show her fire. And if that fire has the power to halt a nation, spark faith in people where there was once only despair, if she can do that, what can she do to the President of 13?

She decides there and then that she has to stop her.

* * *

><p><strong>009. Halted.<strong>

They've destroyed it, their Great Mountain, it's ruined, and all he feels is a fury, a fire so consuming and powerful that he knows it will erupt if he can't control it.

He's always followed the word of the Capitol; the idea of rebellion has never been anything more than an impossible nightmare for him. The Capitol has fed him, clothed him, watched over him and his training all his life, so the very notion of destroying that has always seemed wrong, despicable, cruel. Like killing your own father.

So of course, when these 'rebels' from District 13 (yes, that's right, 13, it isn't dead, it isn't dead, they lied, they lied, it isn't possible) come storming over to their city and trample the ground with their grey boots and blank faces, he has to protect his home. It's his _home_, not a buffer zone between _us _and _them_. They don't have the _right _to destroy his homeland, his Great Mountain, his family and friends. They don't have the right.

And that _girl_, that stupid girl with her fire and songbirds, she stands at the helm of it all. Commanding the troops to burn down what is left of 2.

Emotions like he has never felt, anger and fear and shock, courses through his veins, and it's all he can do to keep standing. How dare she presume that she can control them, all of them in District 2, just because she's a 'symbol'. This girl, she has no respect for him, for his District, _she killed their boy Cato! _How can she just waltz in and expect to be loved, revered, protected?

From out of her mouth comes words, words of victory perhaps. But he does not listen to her lies (he knows they must be lies, she is going against the Capitol); instead he feels the compulsion to stop her in her tracks.

So he does. He runs forwards, out of the sanctity of the station, clasping his gun, and trains it at her head. He doesn't want her help, not hers, not any of theirs. He doesn't want her to pity his face, his injuries, because _she caused them._

All he needs is a reason. A _single reason_ to hold his fire. He might be mad, he might be from 2, but he doesn't want to be a killer. She holds her fate in her hands, whatever she says to defend herself.

But she doesn't. All she can say is "I can't."

What? What does she mean, what kind of answer is that? But he knows it's true, he reads it on her face. She lowers her bow, her voice small and defeated, almost as if she's given up. It's clear she doesn't want to be _their slave_ anymore.

_Slave?_ He isn't a slave, not to anyone, especially not to the Capitol. They feed him, provide for him - just how can he be their slave?

She speaks in hushed tones, so he must strain to hear her, despite her microphone. All thoughts of using the gun in his hands have disappeared. She speaks of the Games, her Games, and the terrible kills she committed - Cato in particular. Would she have done that, would any of them have done that if they were not forced to?

The thought swirls around his head. He remembers his training as a child, an adolescent - training to kill. Would that have been the case, would he have done so, if the Games weren't in place?

Maybe she's right. Maybe they are all forced to do this, by the Capitol. Maybe their promises of sanctity and freedom, of wealth and opulence at the win was all a lie. _It wouldn't be the first thing they've lied about_, he thinks; after all, since when was District 13 supposed to exist?

The wound to his head pulses furiously as she speaks of the mountain. _How can she even dare to mention it? _However, it's not the glory of her win of which she speaks; she sounds almost regretful. Perhaps it was never her intention, her idea to destroy their Great Mountain; perhaps she is just as horrified as him.

He can't answer why he fights against his own people - _why would he want to? _And she condemns his enemy too - _why would they? _Suddenly, for the first time, he believes it. This is not his enemy he fights, she is not his enemy. It isn't her that kills his family, that sends the people from 2 to kill like wild, monstrous animals, that forces hard-working men like him to break their backs to get by. He sees it all clearly. For the first time, it is the Capitol. The Capitol has enslaved them all, and why has he accepted it all his life? Why has all of 2 taken it, stepped down as they have stormed across their backs?

And he feels the fight burning inside him. For so long he was convinced that he was being provided for, protected, loved by the strange pink, gold and green creatures of the Capitol. Now it is plain and clear that they've used him for their own gain.

So he must fight. He lowers his gun.

And when victory comes, he feels the power, for once in his hands. The Capitol overthrown, the Districts in control, no more Games. It tastes sweeter than the fruits of the earth.

* * *

><p><strong>010. Changed.<strong>

Damn romance, it's everywhere! The Capitol seem to love this tacky drama playing out between the two soppy brats from 12; well, they do grow up on poor soap operas and the notion of the beautiful _glory_ of the Games.

But damn it, do they really have to rub it in everyone's faces? We get it, you're in love, go kiss each other's lips off somewhere else!

(Well, she's not sure if it's even real - honestly, that girl doesn't seem _half_ as into it as the boy.)

But, oh god, the worst thought is that she'll have to deal with these two lovebirds next year, every year until she dies. And they'll never stop going on about their 'beautiful love story', _ever._

The thought's enough to make Johanna want to throw up.

She laughs coldly when the Quell is announced. Oh, she should have known that would happen, what else would those stupid bastards in the Capitol do to crush whatever rebellion those two kids started?

At least now she won't have to deal with them year in, year out as mentors. If all goes to plan, they won't even have to fight, properly. (Wait, does that mean she has to... _ally _with them? Well, whoopee. Lucky her. She's not going to make friends though.)

She enjoys it immensely, making fun of the girl Katniss in the elevators, unzipping her dress and then flirting lightly with the boy Peeta. She has to stifle her laugh as Katniss' face darkens, and she knows he sees it too by the mischievous glint in his eye.

She also has a slight taste of triumph when she slams the coil into her temple, viciously rips the tracker out of her arm and leaves her for dead (or so it looks, anyway.) Finally she is able to throw herself at her, even if it is meant to help her.

But she's genuinely terrified when the Capitol snatch her, Peeta and that cow Enobaria and throw them into cells. Even her first Games does not compare to this, not even close.

She's always been a good actress, though. She showed it when she was a girl, and she's showing it now. They can drown her, electrocute her, burn her with their torture and scorn, but she's Johanna Mason, she's tough as iron, and those weak little Peacekeepers will never hold her down.

(If only she could convince herself of that, too.)

But damn, Peeta. She's grown to like and even respect the poor kid, but they're tearing him apart! She hears his howls through the walls, sees the manic light in his eyes as they inject him with that strange serum, watches as that calm persona is ripped apart like meat to a lion.

And she blames the girl. It's got to be that damn girl's fault, it's got to be! They'd never hurt _him_ if they didn't want to punish _her._ That's how these bastards work. If only Katniss herself knew that.

Of course, when the rescue squad finally arrive, she's shaven and beaten and shaken. The cold, fearless persona she so desperately clung to is almost all gone, and Peeta - well, he's more insane than a Capitol citizen at a fashion show. She's heard about his attempt to kill the girl; but that wasn't him, that monstrous brute with the devil eyes and the quaking terror. That was the Capitol's slave at work.

She feels more than smug when the girl returns from 2 with her bruised ribs and ruptured spleen. Yes, admittedly, she's relieved the girl isn't dead, but finally she seems to be suffering for all that she's done!

She steals her morphling, but she's not addicted, not at all. Just takes the edge off, that's it. It really helps when they're out training, running miles and assembling guns, and standing in the - _no, not happening. You're not going there girl._

And for the most part, she learns to grudgingly accept Katniss. She isn't a friend, _she never will be, _but good acquaintance? Maybe. She evens feels sorry for her when Peeta viciously attacks her with biting words at the crowded dinner table, stinging worse than a tracker jacker.

Because maybe the girl's suffering after all; she notices how saddened she is, running the pearl across her palm and her lips, and clutching at all hope. Maybe Peeta did matter to her. (Of course, the romance angle was still all crap.)

She goes into the arena again, a dark, cavernous space engineered by the people she's fighting for. And the water pours, oh it pours, drenching her, stinging her - she swears she can feel the electricity. So she screams, and cries, and rocks on the floor.

Coming to in the hospital once more is painful. And Finnick holds her hand, and Katniss sits beside her, clutching a small rolled up bandage in her hand. "I made it for you," she whispers, handing it over.

Smells like home. Tears spring to her eyes, probably for the first time since Snow killed her family. Pine trees, and wood smoke, and sunshine. She wants home.

She also wants to apologise, to forgive Katniss for everything she's done, and beg for forgiveness for every nasty, cruel thought she's ever had about her. Perhaps she was wrong all along (well, except for the romance bit anyway). Maybe she's just as messed up by the damn Capitol citizens as the rest of them.

All she knows is, when Katniss leaves to defeat them all, she wants her to come home just as much as Finnick or Peeta or any of them.

Damn, she's made a friend with her after all! But oddly enough, she feels happy about it.

* * *

><p><strong>011. Rejuvenated.<strong>

Today is going to be a long day, she can tell. Katniss is in the chair, knees tucked up to her chin, hair matted and black, eyes cold and wild. Sae misses the strong, independent girl who used to frequent the Hob with her woody scent and squirrel hanging on a belt. But when Primrose Everdeen was lost to the flames, she's afraid that all of Katniss was too.

Of course, then the boy comes home, with his spun-gold hair and dancing blue eyes. Obviously Sae's heard the stories: of how his calm, contented manner was torn from his brain and replaced with a demented monster. However, he looks normal; she's seen madness many a time, in the eyes of bereaved parents and even her own children (bless their souls), and he just looks... normal.

Gives her hope, it does.

She sees it in the girl, too. Each day as the sunshine begins to reach through the windows, she lightens. The day comes when she cleans up, stokes the fire, muttering about roses and victory. But Sae really feels the joy when, with worn boots and pine-scented jacket on, Katniss states calmly, "I'm going hunting today."

So the boy with his bread and radiance, and the girl with her arrows and her resilience, move on and grow together.

Hope like she's never known runs around the corner, and when 12 is settled down and rebuilt, life is... quiet. Peaceful. Normal? Perhaps not. But Sae believes the day will come when this lack of oppression, this lack of reaping, this lack of fear, will be.

The girl and boy on fire stoke the flames of the future, and there is no terror anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>012. Convinced.<strong>

He's been through hell and back, and now he's here.

But where did it start, really? Peeta's always loved her, always wanted her beside him as she is now, in his arms, in the dark of _their _room, the whole world far, far away. When did she finally become his?

Is all of this even real? No, he's sure it is. He's sure. It's got to be real, right?

Admittedly, he still has doubts. Some days he still wakes and feels the need to cling on to something, _anything, _to anchor him into reality - _she's a mutt, a mutt, she killed 12, she needs to be stopped, no, it isn't true, it's all lies, lies, lies, real or not real_ - and bring him back to the truth.

Aside from that, he knows the feeling of heartbreak. His memories have returned, almost all of them, and with it the crushing terror, the tearing ache of his heart, and the burning regret that plagued him for all of two years. She'd used his feelings, she had - but he can't reproach her for it, can he? Because it saved them both in the end?

Wasn't that what he wanted? To save her? Yes, yes of course.

_So why does he still doubt her now?_

Perhaps it's because they've both been thrown into the lion's den, been dragged out, and launched back in so many times that he's lost the ability to tell anymore. The Capitol tried to rip him apart, and sadly they almost succeeded. But he's sure he hasn't suffered as bad as Katniss, anyway.

When he came home, he was... worried (to say the least) by what he found. Ratty hair, dirty clothes, but it was the eyes, those wide grey pools spilling over with despair, that's what scared him most. He'd seen the story play out before his eyes: the rolling fire, the President pierced by an arrow, the surge, the pill, the screams, the blind terror -

The snow dusting on the Capitol streets, so white, so pure, washing away the dark reds and browns staining them.

But she came back. The woods she'd always had as her sanctuary brought her back to life, and even now just looking at her, he feels a very strange sense of pride at just how far she's recovered.

She's been through hell and back, and now she's here.

That's not to say that she can forget. Forgetting is impossible - he discovered that even after the Capitol tried to wrench his memories from him and mutate them. They couldn't quite manage it, could they? All he'd needed was a swift press of her lips on his own, deep in the dark, gloomy cavern of Tigris' shop, just a kiss, and it was as though a veil had been lifted. He remembered almost all of it - the arena, the train, the night on the roof, the beach...

_Was that actually ever real, though? Real or not real. Real or not real._

Of course it was. Well, not all of it. But the beach? He'd felt something there, something more. Peeta knows how Katniss kisses when she's performing, when she's afraid or insecure, and those kisses - well, they weren't like anything they'd shared before. They felt... genuine, maybe.

Nothing like now, though. They'd been growing back together bit by bit ever since he returned, and Dr. Aurelius had deemed him mentally fit. It had started small; him bringing his loaves of bread every morning before she slung on her jacket and boots and trekked into the woods.

Then came the paintings. Finnick, Prim, Rue, Cato, Clove, Boggs, Mitchell and a thousand other names; all preserved in ink and paper. He'd had enough flashbacks in that period to last him a lifetime. _They are dead, it's my fault, real or not real, real or not real, real or -_

But her arms would wrap around him (even when he pushed away), her voice would whisper soothingly into his ear, and his shaking and stirring and splitting head would subside.

And when she'd scream and cry and sink within her own crushing guilt, he'd obviously return the favour. Because he isn't whole without her - he sees it now (or rather, remembers) - he needs her to survive. And maybe she feels the same way? He only hopes so.

But none of that compares to now.

He remembers this moment particularly well.

Summer rolled in, bringing the bright, burning yellow of the sun. The meadow bloomed green, purple, blue, pink - a thousand shades, all blending together in a perfect blaze of life. She returned home one day, her game bag slung across her back, cutting through the abstract scene. Peeta could barely draw his eyes away from her, this perfect girl who warmed him from head to toe. But he noticed the weed clutched in her hand as she strode purposely before him - the last dandelion of the year.

After that, it's largely just a haze of delirium in his mind. The moment where she flung her arms around him and pressed her lips to his, that's where it descends into just pure happiness.

They've been through hell and back, and now they're here.

He wants to paint the meadow at that point, he'll have to at some point. Some moments are just too precious to _allow _himself to lose it, after all.

But for now, he's happy to live in the moment. The two of them, in the dark of their room, the whole world far, far away. It's real, isn't it? This moment, it's too perfect for him to have imagined it.

_Real or not real. Real or not real._

He has to know, he has to. Because if this isn't reality, if she doesn't really love him like this, where does that leave him?

So he asks her, the whisper leaving his lips and punctuating the air of the still, silent room. Is this real? Is her love real?

And he swears, the room brightens with a thousand colours, the thousand colours of the meadow, when she murmurs her reply: "Real."

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **Let me just personally commend you for making it through to the end! I hope it paid off well. This isn't the only fic I have in the pipeline for THG, and now that this is finished I'm really looking forwards to diverting my attention to them too._

__I'd love to hear from you if you have any criticisms or feedback, or even to just say which you thought was best/worst/most interesting. I'm curious. Just hit that little review button down there. Thank you!__


End file.
